by James Axler
"Guess we'll just have to trust what he says," Ryan mused when J.B. had finished telling his tale. "I knew there was something about him that set me on edge, even though most of my instincts said to go with him."
"Figure you were right in the long run," the Armorer said. "I can see his point."
"Yeah, and just mebbe I would have done the same thing," Ryan added.
The two friends and longtime traveling companions decided that there was nothing to do but sit back and wait to see what happened when the day's work was done and Crow returned to them. In the meantime, they had to wait for the rest of their party to awaken.
The amount of time it took for the others to come around depended on their individual physical condition and how much of the water they had drunk.
They were all extremely fit, even Doc. Despite the ravages of his enforced time travels, which had made his late-thirties frame seem several decades older, Doc was still extremely fit. There was no way he would have survived if not. His mind was another matter, and how it would react to this shock, when he had already been delirious from the desert trek, was something that they had to ponder. Also, he had been the most dehydrated, and Mildred had made sure that he had drank a larger amount of the water than any of the other companions.
Jak was next to awake, and he reacted to the drug and the enforced sleep in much the same way as he did to a mat-trans jump, by vomiting heavily. But he recovered his strength, and was aided by Mildred, who came around next and was able to feed him a solution from one of the packs taken from the medical bay at the redoubt which quelled his stomach spasms.
Krysty surfaced and showed her strength by gracefully uncoiling from her sleeping position and rising in a fluid movement, standing upright and still while her balance and equilibrium settled.
Dean took some time, as he had drunk copiously, and Doc wasn't far behind. But while Dean was fine, Doc was another matter. Mildred crouched over the prone old man as he began to regain consciousness, muttering and twitching as though in the throes of a fit. His eyes stared blankly from his head, and he failed to respond to any stimulus.
"Is there anything that we can do?" Ryan asked Mildred.
She looked up and shook her head, the grim set of her face showing her concern. "Not that I can think of. Trouble is, I just don't know what's going on up here," she said, tapping her head to indicate Doc's mind. "Whatever else, it's just more shit for him to deal with."
Mildred and Krysty made Doc as comfortable as possible, and while the others paced the confines of the shelter, careful not to attract the attention of the sec man outside but feeling confined like caged animals, Doc responded to the cold compresses applied to his fevered brow and the sedative injection Mildred gave him. It was one of the few sealed needles that Mildred had salvaged from the medical bay, and as she was usually loath to use such items, she wasn't surprised at the quizzical look Krysty gave her when she broke the seal on the packet.
"I know, I know. I'm not that keen, either," she said in answer to the unspoken question, "but I don't know what else to do. The trank has unbalanced him even more than the desert, and this is so mild that it should just keep him under long enough to get more rest. There's not a lot else that could work," she added, shrugging.
And sometimes desperate measures could be the most effective, for after a couple more hours of deeper rest, Doc suddenly opened his eyes and said in a clear, firm voice, "I feel as if I have been asleep for a thousand years, and have awakened to the strangest feeling that I have said that, or something akin to it, quite recently." He raised himself on one elbow. "Now, would it be possible for someone to tell me what on earth is going on, and how we got to be here, for I have to confess that I have not the slightest idea of where, or indeed how."
The relief Ryan felt at Doc's recovery was shown by the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth as he replied, "We can fill you in part of the way, Doc, but for some of it we'll just have to wait and see."
"Until when?"
Ryan looked out of the shelter and at the darkening sky as twilight closed in on the old wag stop.
"Not long, Doc. Not long at all."
THE WORKERS CONTINUED to labor until the light was almost gone and the temperature had dropped from the blistering heat of the day to the bone-numbing cold of night. Petey had come into the shelter, cradling his H&K, and lit a number of oil lamps that were suspended from the poles that also held up the protective sheeting.
"How long do you usually work?" Ryan asked the sec man.
Petey shrugged, keeping a wary eye on the group but showing no great hostility. "Depends on the light, but it's more or less around this time. We get about fourteen hours of work a day."
Dean whistled. "That's pretty intensive."
"Eh?" The sec man paused, staring at the boy.
"I mean it's a lot of time and doesn't give you much chance to rest," Dean explained.
Petey shrugged again. "Sooner we get done, sooner we get paid, and the more jack we get. Baron Silas is generous if you play straight and work hard. Mean-eyed fucker if you don't."
"Baron Silas who?" J.B. asked disingenuously.
"You don't catch me out that easily," the sec man said with a wry grin. "Crow'll let you know all you need when he comes in. And that won't be too long, so you just be patient," he added, leaving them alone.
The sec man's assumption was correct. It was less than half an hour before Crow led the workforce into the shelter.
"Glad to see you're all awake and well. I'd guess that the enforced rest may even have done some good after your long journey," he directed at them before turning to his own men.
"Bronson, you, Rysh and Hal are on sec duty tonight."
The three men took food and water from the supplies for the sec men who remained on guard duty, taking them their meal before settling to their own. While they did this, the remaining workers took their own meal, discussing with one another the day's work and their individual performances. The companions, listening to them, all noted that the main topic of conversation was getting the work finished and collecting the large bonus for a quick finish; the men were graphic about the manner in which they would spend the bonus in a gaudy house, casting glances at Krysty and Mildred as they did so.
The two women were the last people to be worried and shocked by such talk, which was obviously the intention, and Ryan noted that Crow was watching their reaction. The foreman did nothing to halt such talk, although he was silent and impassive as he took his meal. The one-eyed warrior guessed that the foreman said nothing as he wanted to test both the resiliency of the women, and the ability of their male companions to keep their peace. A swift glance at his team showed Ryan that they wouldn't be found wanting.
The tone of the conversation continued when Hal, Rysh and Branson returned from their task and also began to eat. It continued until Crow had finished his repast, at which point he decided that enough was enough.
"I hope," he said, his quiet and deep voice cutting through the talk and silencing the others despite its lack of volume, and directing his comments at the companions, "that you have also partaken of our food and water?"
Ryan assented. "We appreciate you sharing your supplies with us. And I can appreciate why you did what you did. I figure that mebbe I can trust you people not to chill us—otherwise you would have done it already. What I'm wondering now is what you want from us, and who you are and where you come from. Oh yeah, and why you're working out here in the middle of nowhere on an old wag stop."
Crow allowed a rare touch of emotion—a barely contained humor—to creep into his tone. "Sure there's nothing else?"
"Not yet," the one-eyed warrior countered.
"Okay, let's take it from the top," Crow began. "We all come from a ville called Salvation, which lies about three days from here along the remains of the old road. Salvation is run by Baron Silas Hunter, who's the man who pays our jack."
"Good jack, by the sound of it," J.B. interjected.
> "Certainly is, especially if we finish on schedule or ahead."
"Finish what?"
"This way station. There are a number of old wag stops along this route that date back to beyond skydark, and our job—and the job of other teams like ours—is to get the way stations ready for when the well is open again. 'Cause Salvation is built around the remains of an old oil well, and the refinery that went along with it. Baron Silas's folks have always been around these parts, and they've spent a long, long time trying to get the well and refinery going."
"And he has?" Ryan asked. When Crow affirmed this, Ryan whistled. "Fresh oil, refined—that's big jack. How did he manage to get the thing going?"
"Baron Silas has a deal going with the barons of all the villes in this region. They've bankrolled him in return for a share in the fuel he produces. That's real power. And they need stops along the road to pick up and rest up on their way to and from the well. So here we are. Most of us working here are from Salvation. That's not so on other stops. Guess you could say part of the payment is in manpower."
All Ryan's people exchanged looks. Like anyone in the Deathlands, they knew how important fuel for wags would be. There were few vehicles left, and those that had survived were always short of fuel. To have such a source would give whoever possessed it, or formed an alliance, immense power.
"So where do we come into it?" Ryan asked finally.
"You don't as such," Crow replied. "You just happened to walk in. You can either walk away and take your chances, or you can join us and work. If we get this finished all the quicker because of you, then I guess we can spare a little jack. Plus you get your weapons back and mebbe the chance to see Salvation."
"Mebbe?"
Crow shrugged. "Where you go after we finish is up to you. What do you say?"
Ryan considered the options. The desert offered nothing but chilling. They couldn't get their weapons back from the workers by force, as they were unarmed and outnumbered, and just mebbe there would be something of use to them in Salvation. Baron Silas Hunter sounded as though he could be interesting.
"Tell you what," the one-eyed warrior said eventually, "you take us to Salvation when we finish this job and give us back our weapons, and we'll gladly work our way. Hard work is no problem, but that desert is a bastard."
Crow nodded. "I figured you'd see it that way."
Chapter Six
The work party rose with the sun, and at first light the next morning they began to stir under the covers that protected them from both the sun and the chilling night. Crow was one of the first to awake, as though snapped awake by the first glimmerings of the day.
The giant rose to his feet and looked at the sprawled figures around, huddled under blankets or coats. He noted that Krysty and Ryan were sleeping close together, and likewise J.B. and Mildred. He then glanced over his still slumbering workers and remembered the comments of the night before. Although it didn't show on his impassive visage, he figured that he would have to watch closely for any trouble, as it was almost certain to arise.
The foreman began to stir his workforce awake, and after he was sure they were rising for the day's work, he turned to the companions.
"I see you're already awake," he said generally, as they were all rising.
"My dear sir, although you are as silent as a spirit walking, the combined noise of any amount of people within such an enclosed space would make further slumber an impossibility."
"Don't mind Doc," Dean added, "he never likes to use one word where a hundred could be."
The Native American allowed himself the flicker of a smile. "Betrays a good brain," he said. "I just hope he can work as well as he can talk."
"Despite my apparent age, I shall not be found wanting," Doc uttered.
The foreman nodded. "Okay, eat, take some water and join the others outside. You have twenty minutes," he added.
Playing it the way it felt, the companions allowed the workmen to wash themselves down and freshen up before taking their morning meal. It meant hanging around and taking the stares directed at the women, but in their current position it was best to play possum.
"Hey, you think those gaudies gonna get their skin on show when they work?" Hal asked Emerson.
Emerson, whose dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and whose beard was flecked with gray, studied Mildred and Krysty through hooded eyes.
"Hell, I hope so," he drawled. "Them bein' two colors'll make it look real nice."
He directed his next comment to the men in Ryan's party. "Hey, I bet you boys have some fun, there."
Jak's red eyes pierced through the heavily set workman. "More fun in chilling scum," he said quietly.
The albino teenager was nearly a full foot smaller than the workman, was unarmed and was slight in build compared to the burly Emerson. But still, there was something cold and diamond hard about the youth that made the workman look away without saying anything further.
An uneasy silence hung over the room after the workforce had finished and walked out into the sunlight, leaving the companions alone.
"This isn't going to be easy," Ryan said slowly. "Not easy at all."
WITH THE ROOF NOW securely in place, and the newly finished two-story blockhouse in place, the remaining task was to build the extension onto the existing structure. The new wag stop would then have storage space for fuel, food and water, as well as accommodation for a regular attendant and a few travelers.
The foundation for the extension had been completed, and the task in front of the workforce and the companions was to construct the one-story building and insulate the interior walls of the storage space, in order that any fire in the interior could be contained, and an exterior fire wouldn't be able to penetrate the walls and ignite the fuel stores.
Wags from Salvation had carried out the building materials needed—a salvaged amalgam of brick, cinder block, sheets of metal and some sand and cement that could be mixed with some of the precious water in order to meld the whole together. The insulating materials were salvaged from old buildings, and were carefully wrapped to prevent the asbestos in the mix from spreading dust into the air.
Crow directed the companions to their tasks. Ryan and J.B. were to help lay the cinder block outer walls, while Dean, Jak and Doc were to assist in the building of the interior walls and the installation of the insulation. Mildred and Krysty were spared the heavier work, and were to mix the concrete. When J.B. asked how Baron Silas Hunter had amassed an amount of something that was simply no longer made, Crow informed him that one of the villes that were investing in the baron's scheme had an old cement works within its boundaries, and the supplies for all the wag stops on the route had been plundered from those bags that hadn't been split or had leaked over the past century, and had so gone hard.
"It was tight, but I reckon as how we've got enough," the foreman said thoughtfully.
"You're an expert?" J.B. asked.
"I make sure I know what's going on if I'm to do my job properly," Crow replied.
"I went to the works to assess what there was, and checked up in some old predark building manuals that Baron Silas had acquired.
"He's a thorough man," Crow added simply, but heavy with a hidden threat.
The Native American's putting Mildred and Krysty onto the concrete mixing wasn't a gesture toward their sex, but rather a shrewd move, which Ryan appreciated, to forestall the need for them to shed too many clothes through exertion in the heat.
If they stayed fully clothed and away from the main body of the workers, then there would be less chance of conflict between Ryan's people and Crow's workforce. But it wasn't to be that easy.
"SAY, BOY, have you learned what it's like to be a man yet?" Rysh asked Dean as they laid the internal brick wall separating the fuel store from the food and water store.
Dean stopped with a brick poised over a line of mortar.
"Just what exactly do you mean?" he asked cautiously. "I've chilled my fair share and traveled a long way."
Rysh shrugged. "Chilling's just a way of life, boy. I mean, have you ever had any pussy?"
Dean blushed despite himself, and felt the eyes of both Rysh and Emerson on him. The heavyset, dark workman pushed the point home.
"Hellfire, Rysh, just look at the boy, blushing hot as a forest fire. He's been there with them."
"And I'll bet they're good—they'd have to be with those five boys to keep happy," Rysh added, winking.
"Dunno about the old guy." Emerson chuckled. "He don't look like he could keep it up enough."
"I know what you're trying to do," Dean said, keeping his voice as even as possible, "but it's not going to work. There's no way that you'll get anything out of Krysty and Mildred, and we sure as hell aren't going to fight you over it."
"You saying you a virgin, then, boy?" Emerson goaded.
"That's my business," Dean replied shortly. "But it's not like that with Mildred and Krysty."
Rysh looked closely at Dean's hand, at how the brick was trembling in the boy's grip. He decided to push it further. "I reckon as how those gaudies could pull a train for us when we finish the wag stop. What do you think, Emerson?"
The comment fulfilled its purpose. Dean swung around, the brick still in his grasp and following through in a roundhouse punch that would have caved in Rysh's skull at the temple—if the workman hadn't been prepared for the action, and had already moved away from the arc of the blow.
As one man sidestepped, so the other moved in. Emerson ducked underneath and aimed a giant fist at Dean's solar plexus, which had been left exposed by his stance. On anyone else, the movement would have been quick enough to catch the victim in the guts. But Dean Cawdor was quicker than that, and twisted his body in midflight, avoiding the blow and somehow managing to keep his balance.
Doc saw this from the far side of the building's interior, where he and Jak were erecting the metal sheeting walls that would delineate the sleeping quarters. He was facing the scene, while Jak had his back turned—although both had heard the beginnings of the altercation.